


West of the Mountains, South of the Sun

by littlerhymes



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-11
Updated: 2008-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gunslingers, outlaws and runaways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	West of the Mountains, South of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks as always to proteinscollide, for beta-reading, patiently listening to my complaints, and being generally awesome.
> 
> All the historical inaccuracies are mine.

**One**  
   
Around three in the afternoon, Ryan saddled up his horse and set off down the trail into town.  
   
At the general store he tipped his hat respectfully to Spencer's father and little sister standing behind the varnished counter. He picked up the latest mail, a bag of coarse-ground flour, odds and ends he needed for the house, and paid in a mixture of coins and stamps.  
   
The Smiths were friendly enough and for once they didn't ask about Spencer. For that he was grateful - they still couldn't understand why Spencer'd given up his claim to the store to work on Ryan's nothing of a farm. Honestly, the place was hardly worth the name, just a bit of land, some livestock, and the house his father had built some twenty years before.   
   
He'd just hefted the bag of flour up over his horse's saddle and was ready to get riding again when he heard the music coming from the saloon across the road.   
   
Ryan hesitated. Sometimes he and Spencer'd stop at the Cobra to hitch up their belts and lean against the bar like they'd been doing it all their lives, shake their head over the rain or lack thereof and play a few hands of poker with Jon and the boys. Today there were fences that needed mending, supper to be cooked, Spencer waiting. He didn't have the time to go in, but the thread of the music pulled him out of his course and through the Cobra's doors anyway.  
   
A train had come in just that morning and the saloon was packed, the crowd at the bar elbow-to-elbow as they jostled for Gabe and Victoria's attention. It seemed like Ryan was the only one paying any mind to the scruffy boy sitting at the battered piano. The old piece of junk had never sounded better. Ryan leaned against the wall and watched him play.   
   
When the song ended Ryan thought about going over to introduce himself, asking the name of the song, asking if there were any words.  
   
Instead he shouldered his way up to the bar and waited for Victoria to make her way around. When she finally came over, she poured him a shot of whiskey neat without asking.    
   
"Thanks," Ryan said.  
   
There were plenty of customers waiting but Victoria lingered for a moment, pretending to wipe the counter's scarred surface. "Your old friend Pete is back in town, did you know?" she said after a moment, eyeing him too carefully from beneath long lashes.   
   
He nearly dropped his glass. "What?"  
   
There was only one person she could mean. So Pete had found him. He'd always known this was coming - he just hadn't expected it so soon.  
   
"You know who," she said impatiently. "He wants to see you."   
   
Carefully Ryan sipped. "Why?" He heard his own voice, cool and level. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight. His pulse was racing.

"He's got a job coming up, of course." She kept her voice low, the words clipped. "He was here just last week asking for you."  
   
"Thanks for the tip." Ryan placed coins down on the bar with a calm he didn't feel. "But you can tell him I'm not interested."  
   
"You sure about that?" She paused and looked at him critically, head tilted. "You and Smith can't make much from that old farm of yours. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to earn a little extra money. Buy yourself some new clothes for once."  
   
He shook his head.  
   
Victoria looked like she was about to object so he interrupted quickly. "Who's the new guy?" Ryan said. "At the piano."  
   
They both looked over at the dark-haired boy, now flicking through a few sheets of music. "Said his name was Brendon. He came in on the train today. No money, nothing."  
   
As though he'd heard them, Brendon looked up in time to catch Ryan's eyes. He grinned unexpectedly before starting to sing.  
   
Victoria turned back to Ryan, saying, "Look, I'll tell him, but you'd better watch yourself. You know what he's like." She didn't need to say that she wasn't talking about Brendon.  
   
Ryan nodded and knocked back the rest of the shot before leaving as quietly as he'd come.  
   
*  
   
He'd pawned his banjo two train stops back and his grandfather's second-best watch three stops before that. By the time Brendon got kicked off the train in Summerlin, he was down to his last two dollars and was wondering what he'd get for his boots.  
   
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he followed the crowd of travellers down the main street to the local saloon. He looked up at the faded sign above the doors, the cobra with its fangs bared and ready to strike, and thought _this'll have to do_.  
   
"I'm on my way to New York," he explained to the girl tending the crowded bar. His stomach rumbled insistently. He ignored it and took another gulp from his glass. "I'm going to be famous."  
   
Victoria gave him a pitying look. "Oh, honey."   
   
"No, really! Say..." Brendon snapped his fingers as though the thought had just occured to him. "You wouldn't happen to have a piano around here, would you? I could give you a demonstration."  
   
And he gave her his most winning, guileless smile.  
   
Three songs and the smile were enough to win him another drink, on the house. He made his thanks loud and effusive, and then waited until Gabe and Victoria were busy bundling some drunk out the door before sneaking out the kitchen window with their cashbox under his arm.  
   
He would've made it too, but for his boot catching in the window sash. He lost precious seconds, time enough for Gabe to catch him by the ankle. He kicked out wildly and felt his heel connect, heard Gabe swear, and then Gabe was _hauling_ him in, hand over hand.   
   
Brendon flailed ineffectually for a moment before cracking his head on the window sill and blacking out.   
   
He came to lying on the kitchen floor, the surface slightly sticky. His head was one giant throb of pain. Victoria was dabbing a cold compress to his forehead while Gabe stood and scowled, massaging a bruise on his jaw.  
   
When he tried to sit up Victoria pushed him back down again. "You probably have concussion," she said matter of factly. "If you sit up your brain might fall out." She dabbed a little harder. Water trickled into his eye.  
   
He took the compress out of her hand. "Thanks," he said, and sat up anyway, wincing.  
   
"Brendon, Brendon, Brendon." Gabe shook his head and clicked his tongue. His smile wasn't kind. "You've just made the biggest mistake of your life."  
   
He tried to look suitably repentant. "I know - I'm sorry. Please don't turn me in." He looked down at his hands, twisting the damp cloth until droplets formed. "My family's dead, you see. The bank foreclosed on our farm and I didn't know what to do. If you could. If you could  _maybe_ just give me a second chance...?"  
   
It wasn't the first time he'd talked his way out of trouble. By this stage, when he looked up with huge, sad eyes, the lady whose purse he'd lifted was pressing money into his hands, or the train conductor was sighing and agreeing to turn a blind eye this one time.  
   
Gabe and Victoria just looked straight back at him with identical feline stares. "You're pretty good," Gabe said. "Ever thought about vaudeville?"  
    
Shit, he thought, biting his lip. He heaved himself to his feet with a sigh. "Okay, fine. Take me to the lock-up. I'll go quietly." Maybe he'd have a better chance with the sheriff.  
   
Gabe burst out laughing.  
   
"You've got it all backwards, Brendon," Victoria said sweetly, and why hadn't he noticed before that her other hand was holding a pistol? She pushed the muzzle into his stomach and backed him up against the wall. "We're not turning you in. Honour among thieves, you know. Or whatever."  
   
Still laughing, Gabe slung his arm around Victoria's shoulders. "See, you owe us now." Gabe raised his eyebrows, rubbed meaningfully at his bruised jaw. "Wouldn't you say?"  
   
"Ummm." Brendon looked down at the muzzle of the gun, pressed into his checked shirt. The metal felt cold even through the fabric. "Yeah? I guess so?"  
   
"By all rights, I should be slitting your throat here and now for even _thinking_ about stealing from me," Gabe said with pleasant menace. "Or letting Victoria here slug some lead into your gut."  
   
Brendon swallowed.  
   
" _But_ ," Gabe added, "as it happens, it's your lucky day. See, there's a friend of mine who needs to get some work done."  
   
"Uh huh," Brendon said, nodding obediently. "And you want me to...?"  
   
"We want you to keep your mouth shut, and to be ready," Gabe said sharply. "Do what we tell you to do, and you could stand to make yourself some serious money. On the other hand, if you don't... " He trailed off and shrugged.  
   
Victoria cocked the pistol and smiled even wider. "So how does that sound? Hmmm?"  
   
"Sounds good!" he said hastily. "Sounds fucking _great_."  
   
*  
   
When Spencer turned eighteen, Ryan had been gone more than a year and most people had pretty much stopped expecting he'd ever come back.  
   
The day of his birthday, Pa quietly slipped a few extra dollars into his pay and looked embarrassed when Spencer tried to say thanks. Ma roasted a chicken and his sisters baked him a cake. After dinner they lit the candles and gathered around the kitchen table, singing.  
   
Spencer leant down and blew the candles out. He made a wish.  
   
It was maybe three or four nights later that his youngest sister woke him up in the middle of the night. "Spencer," she whispered, pale and scared in her nightgown, "I think there's a ghost downstairs."

He'd sighed and grumbled, as much for show as reluctance. "You'd better be back in bed and asleep by the time I come back up again," he warned before starting for the stairs.  
   
Downstairs in the darkened store, Spencer made his way between the familiar shelves. The creaking floorboards were cool beneath his bare feet. The store was empty of ghosts, or anyone else.  
   
He was about to turn and go back up the stairs when he heard the sound of a guitar, being played on the back steps. Slowly he pushed the back door open, hardly daring to hope, to breath.  
   
"Hey," Ryan said, pushing himself to his feet. He put the guitar down beside an old rifle and a pair of cracked leather boots. Up close Ryan's cheeks were bristly, his face freckled from too much sun.  
   
"Hey," Spencer said. He looked out into the darkened road. "How'd you get here? You have a horse?" he said, just to have something to say.  
   
He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, finally put his hands down on the porch railing and pressed down hard. Months that Spencer'd been waiting for this and now that the moment was here he didn't know what to do with it.  
   
"Had one, sold it. Rode the train for a while until I ran out of money. Walked the rest. I was trying to make it back in time for your birthday. Kinda stupid, I guess."  Ryan turned towards him, his smile only a little crooked, his hand warm on Spencer's sleeve, and it felt like watching the sun rise.  
   
"Yeah," Spencer said eventually. "You are." He smiled back anyway. He couldn't help it.  
   
A month or so after that, Ryan's father fell ill and Spencer found himself packing up a bag and moving to the farm. It was just for now, he assured his parents, just until Ryan got the farm back into order and Mr Ross was well again.  
   
He never did go back to the store.  
   
They slept at first in Ryan's bedroom, their two pallets separated by the length of an arm, by thirteen years' shared memories and one year of secrets. The thin walls were no barrier to Ryan's father's snores and coughs and they always took care to talk in whispers.  
   
Sometimes Spencer would just lie in the dark and listen to Ryan breathing, would wake up in the middle of the night and turn over to check he was still there and hadn't disappeared again. He never failed to feel a jolt of relief when he saw Ryan's form beneath the blankets.  
   
That arrangement lasted until Ryan's father passed.  
   
After the funeral, they cleaned the old house from top to bottom. They saved Mr Ross' bedroom for last, setting aside a whole day to throwing out the old mattress, scrubbing the floor, sorting through twenty years of accumulated junk. Spencer busied himself with the mop and pretended not to notice when Ryan stilled over a box of old daguerreotypes, a handful of memories from better times.  
   
As soon as the floorboards of his father's old room were dry, Ryan began to move his things. "So we'll each have more space now, right?" Ryan said, gathering up an armful of clothes.  
   
"Yeah. And I won't have to trip over another one of your shitty scarves." Spencer scooped up a stray scarf from the floor and draped it around Ryan's neck. He held onto the ends just a few seconds too long, so they were joined for a moment by a loop of wool, by an intake of breath.  
   
Spencer let go and turned away without saying a word.   
   
That evening it seemed to Spencer they both delayed the moment they'd have to go upstairs. They lingered over their dinner plates, claimed they were going to read just one more chapter or newspaper before the fire died down.   
   
When it finally struck midnight, Spencer stretched and yawned and said, very clearly, "Well. Goodnight. Early start tomorrow, yeah?"  
   
Ryan jabbed at the fire with the poker, sending up sparks. He didn't look up. "Yeah. Night, Spencer. I'm just gonna." He flapped his hand at the book in his lap. "Finish the chapter."  
   
Upstairs in Ryan's old room - his room now - Spencer lay very still in the dark. He shut his eyes and resolutely did not listen to the sound of the stairs creaking beneath Ryan's steady tread, or the pause that meant he'd stopped for a moment outside Spencer's door. He fell asleep that way, with the pillow over his head.  
   
Months had passed since then and nothing much had changed. Sometimes Spencer thought he was okay with that, and other times he knew he wasn't.  
   
*  
   
The advertisement had asked for a school teacher - _no experience required_ \- and Jon was the only applicant.  
   
The job was even easier than it sounded. Book learning just wasn't held in the same esteem as it was back in Chicago. As long as the kids came home knowing how to write their own names and count up more numbers than they had fingers the locals were content to leave well enough alone.   
   
No one minded that the school teacher could just as easily be found at the saloon as lecturing in the school house, or that he'd occasionally be up and away on his rangy black horse for a few days at time. Folks here were more concerned with whether he could hold his liquor, if he knew how to handle a gun, whether he was a man of his word.  
   
The kids liked him too, not least because he let them off school early more often than not, sometimes even curtailed the week by a day or two, saying on a Friday afternoon, "We've had enough till next Tuesday, don't you reckon?"  
   
He spent a lot of time at the saloon getting to know the locals. He'd flirt with Victoria, swap gossip with Gabe, trade war stories with the regulars. Often he wound up playing poker and shooting pool with Spencer and Ryan and the other local farm boys.   
   
It was Spencer who filled him on the story behind the advertisement, late one night over a game of cards. "Brent Wilson grew up with us," Spencer said, stacking up his chips. "Lived here all his life. A real nice guy."  
   
"So what happened?" Jon held up a hand. "No, wait. Let me guess. He eloped with a showgirl from Dodge City? He got religion and went preaching in Mexico?"  
   
"Worse," Spencer said solemnly, shaking his head. "He joined the circus. Taming lions."  
   
Jon laughed. "No, seriously. What happened?"   
   
Spencer shrugged. "No one knows for sure. He said he wanted to travel for a while. See the world a bit before settling down. There were letters, for a while, and then." He spread his hands. "Nothing. Your guess is as good as mine."  
   
"What about you?" Jon said, turning to Ryan. "What do you think?"  
   
Ryan split the deck of cards and shuffled them neatly. He didn't look up. "I wasn't here when he left."  
   
"Yeah? But you knew him before, right, when you guys were-"  
   
"I'm sick of talking about Brent, okay?" Ryan said sharply.   
   
Spencer frowned and looked at Jon, shrugging, but he didn't say anything so Jon kept his mouth shut too.   
   
Ryan split the deck of cards and shuffled again before dealing them out in silence. Then, as though there'd been no break in the conversation at all, he said, "So what about you, Jon? What's your story?"  
   
It was the closest he'd ever heard Ryan get to apologising so he shrugged and took it as such. "Oh, you know." Jon checked his cards and laid them back down again with an inward sigh. "The usual. Joined the army. Left the army. Met a girl."  
   
"Oh yeah?" Spencer said, sorting through his cards. "That who you're always writing to?"  
   
"Yeah." Jon ducked his head and endured their mocking with a smile.  
   
 _My dearest Cassie_ , Jon wrote at his usual table in the saloon some weeks later, while the new pianist plinked away in the background.  _Hope this finds you well. Summerlin is fine but I miss Chicago. Still no sign of rain. I'm starting to wonder if this is the right town._  
   
Here he paused, and thoughtfully drained his glass.  
   
"What's doing, Walker?" Gabe plucked the empty glass from Jon's hand and added it to the stack cradled in the crook of his arm. "Another letter to your girl?"   
   
Jon folded the letter over and tucked it into his shirt pocket, tempered the gesture with a good-natured grin. "None of your business, is what it is."  
   
"Yeah, I knew it. Another drink, teach?"  
   
Several drinks later, Jon left the saloon by the back door. The yard was unlit except for one swaying lantern, but he made it to the outhouse without mishap.  
   
He was buttoning up his fly when he heard the clopping of horses' hooves, the jingle of spurs and bits. There was a creaking of leather and the dull thud of boots hitting the hardpacked ground and then a lazy, drawling voice. "Been waiting long, Gabe?"  
   
"Jesus, Pete, thought you'd never turn up."  
   
Shit, he thought.  _Pete Wentz_. So the rumours were true.    
   
Jon bit back a curse, buttoned up, drew his pistol. He held the gun low against his side as he inched through the yard, keeping to the shadows. He ducked behind a stack of empty crates and forced himself to breathe slower, think faster.  
   
"My boys'll be here soon. You got everything under control, right?" Pete stuck his hands into his pockets, rocking back on and forth on his heels like a child. The bounty on his head didn't seem to weigh him down at all.  
   
"Yeah, everything's set. I've even got a new recruit. But your sharp shooter..." Gabe shrugged carelessly. "He told Victoria that he's out."  
   
"Out?" Pete shook his head and laughed. "No, no. He's _in_. He just doesn't know it yet."  
   
Gabe shrugged again. "You're the boss." He slung an arm around Pete's shoulders. "How about we talk about this upstairs? I've got a bottle of tequila with your name on it..."  
    
The next morning Jon headed straight for the post office, not to post a letter but to send an urgent telegram.  
   
 _DEAREST CASSIE HOPE YOURE WELL . HEAVY RAIN FALL NO DOUBT A BIG STORM COMING . HOPE TO SEE SOME FRIENDS FROM HOME VERY SOON . XOXO JON ._  
   
   
   
 **Two**  
   
   
Ryan was seventeen when he ran away.  
   
They'd been at outs for years, and it wasn't the first time his father warned that  _if he went out that door he wouldn't be coming back_. It was just the first time that Ryan took the threat seriously.  
   
He took some clothes and cash, he took his well-worn rifle, his anger. He would've taken a horse but his pride prevented it. Instead he walked the long, dark road alone and caught the dawn train out of town.  
   
He didn't have any real plan in mind. He thought vaguely of hiring on as a farmhand or a cowboy, or working behind a shop counter if nothing else turned up. Yeah, his father would really hate that, he thought with vicious pleasure. First, he'd put a few miles between himself and home. Then he'd start looking for a job in earnest.  
   
And then he met Pete.  
   
Ryan was then three towns west of Summerlin. Huddled in a corner of a nameless saloon, he turned the pages of the flimsy local paper - the headline  _Sheriff foiled by daring Fall Out gang_  - and tried to ignore the increasingly raucous carrying-ons from the gaming tables at the other end of the room.  
   
"C'mon, another bet, another bet," someone was saying, shouting. "Don't be chickenshit, Bill, just because you lost the last one..."  
   
"Fuck you, Pete."  
   
"Okay, fine, how about this? Sharp shooting, we get ourselves a sharpshooter. And look, just to sweeten the deal, you get to pick the shooter."  
   
"Yeah, well... I can pick anyone, right?"  
   
"Sure! And I'll pick the target."  
   
"Wait a second, that's not fucking fair, we should..."  
   
The arguing pair got closer and closer and louder and louder until Ryan looked up and they were standing right over his table. Arm in arm they swayed, eyeing him with gleeful intent.  
   
"Okay, this one," the taller one said, pointing to Ryan with a skinny arm. "Pete, I pick this one."  
   
The shorter guy sat down at the table uninvited, his smile countering Ryan's scowl. He fanned out a handful of crisp dollar bills, saying, "Hey, kid. How'd you like to help me win a wager?"  
   
*  
   
Ryan checked his grip for the fourth time, trying to ignore the catcalls and jibes of Beckett's boys, the well-meaning cheers from Pete's.  
   
Pete himself was singularly unhelpful. He hovered and jittered and gave whiskey-flavoured tips on trajectory and angle that Ryan could only try to ignore.   
   
"Look, if you'd just give me a minute," Ryan snapped finally.  
   
He bit off the rest of the sentence and swallowed it, having realised by then the loud-mouthed gambler with too much money and too much to drink was the notorious Wentz himself, and his tall companion none other then Buffalo Bill Beckett.   
   
Pete just clapped him on the shoulder and laughed, the Wentz temper apparently out of action for this night at least. "Okay, okay. So you know what you're doing." He backed up a few steps, hands up in mock surrender.  
   
Taking a deep breath, Ryan brought the rifle stock back up to his shoulder. He let the breath out again and focused.  
   
On his signal, one of Beckett's boys - Mike? Andrew? Tom? there were so many he couldn't keep their names straight - set the bottle swinging from a distant tree branch. Sighted along the barrel of his gun, the bottle was small as a speck of dust and large as the side of a barn.  
   
 _Bang_.  
   
The sound of shattering glass, the sound of Pete's boys whooping in sheer delight. He could hear Pete already bragging to Beckett, "You just watch yourself, me and the kid are gonna clean you out tonight!"  
   
Next he shot down an apple withered on the branch, a plate tossed skywards, a passing crow. When dawn came, Bill was cursing and turning out empty pockets, and Pete was strutting.  
   
"Where've you been all my life, Ryan Ross?" Pete crowed, his hug almost knocking Ryan over.   
   
"Um," Ryan said, stumbling slightly from Pete's weight. "Summerlin, Nevada."  
   
"You're funny, man, anyone ever tell you that?" Pete grinned widely, his arm lithe and warm around Ryan's waist. "There's a place for you if you wanna ride with us, you know. If you're heading in our direction, I mean."  
   
"Yeah." Ryan ducked his head, not bothering to ask which direction that might be. "I guess so."  
   
*  
   
Pete promised riches, fame, thrills.  
   
Not in so few words, of course, this being Pete all silver-tongued and eager, who turned a request for coffee into a five minute speech, who couldn't go take a piss without leaving instructions for what to do in his absence.   
   
Ryan wasn't yet two days into riding with the Fall Outs when he knew the truth of this - though it took a little longer to realise what Pete was saying without a single word.  
   
The Fall Outs were then fresh from a string of hold-ups and ready to lie low for a while. Most of the gang had already scattered, leaving just Pete, Joe and Andy, and now Ryan. They went north and eastwards in search of towns where their faces were still unknown, sticking for the most part to the back trails, the ragged mountains and scrubby plains.  
   
Joe and Pete whiled away the long days in rapid-fire talk, punctuated by laconic put-downs from Andy. Most of it consisted of the usual cowboy boasts about the places they'd been, the fights they'd won, the girls they'd kissed and more - except that in the case of these particular gunslingers, when they said they'd shot a man for a look they probably meant it.  
   
Ryan didn't have much to contribute to these discussions, never having so much as thrown a fist in anger. Yet often it seemed when he glanced around the campfire that Pete was looking right back at him, and the longer he looked the more it seemed that the words Pete stumbled over in his haste to get them out -   
   
"- so this guy, right, like a huge guy, huge like twice, no, I mean, three times the size of me, and so he's taking a swing at me with, with this HAND you know, a hand like a fucking side of ham I'm talking about -"  
   
\- that these words had nothing at all to do with the look in Pete's dark eyes, the curve of his lips, the way Pete would sometimes wrap his arm around Ryan's waist, fingers brushing over skin that prickled at his touch.  
    
When it finally happened they were in a hotel, the first one they'd been to in weeks. Pete grabbed Ryan by the hand and dragged him into his room. The place was a dump, the walls so thin they could hear the murmur of voices and clink of glasses from Andy's room next door.   
   
"Shhhh," Pete said and pushed Ryan up against that same wall. Pete's mouth on his was sloppy and urgent, his hands rough on Ryan's hips.  
   
They were both breathing hard when Pete pulled away. He hooked his fingers into Ryan's belt and tugged him towards the bed. The mattress sagged beneath their joint weight, the frame creaking ominously, their boots leaving streaks of dust on the tattered counterpane.  
   
He propped himself up on an elbow and started to say Pete's name but Pete just said "Shhhh" again and pushed him back down, deft hands unbuckling Ryan's belt. Ryan lifted his hips, let Pete work his jeans down to his knees, let Pete mouth at the inside of his thigh, at his cock.  
   
Pete's mouth was hot and wet on him, around him. Ryan shuddered and forced his hands upwards to grip the headboard. _Shhhh_ , he thought and bit down on his lip.   
   
He couldn't help from thrusting as he came, any more then he could look away from Pete's mouth all red and bruised, or the way Pete glanced up after swallowing and smiled, swiping those lips with the back of his hand.  
   
Pete crawled up over the bed to lie down beside him, their bodies curving toward one another. He took Ryan's hand, roughly licked the palm and wrapped it around Pete's own prick, his eyes intent on him as he spilled into Ryan's hand, on his shirt and stomach.  
   
They both still had their boots on.  
   
Ryan flopped onto his back, feeling the sticky wetness dry against his skin. He wiped his hand on his damp shirt, reasoning that it was done for anyway, and pulled his jeans back over his thighs. He recalled with a sigh he only had one spare shirt and that was in his room across the hall.  
   
From next door, the sound of Andy laughing, followed by a woman's lowered voice. The walls were really very thin.  
   
*  
   
They settled in Wilmette.   
   
Joe and Andy took furnished rooms in the town's best hotel, but Pete took a fancy to a stately two-storied house set some way apart from the main street. He signed the lease as "Lewis Kingston" and paid in cash for the next three months.   
   
Around town he introduced Ryan as his cousin, with a sly sideways glance that Ryan was sure as good as told everyone it was a lie. Or maybe not, since for all the months they stayed in Wilmette no one so much as blinked an eye, let alone questioned why they needed all those rooms to themselves.   
   
They didn't, as a matter of fact. Ryan had a bedroom and never slept in it once.  
    
It was an easy life. Ryan tended to their horses and livestock, and whatever needed doing about the house. While the days were still long they'd often ride out, sometimes to hunt and sometimes just to ride, and there were always the saloons when Pete needed diversion.  
   
As winter drew in, they spent more time indoors. Ryan knew his letters alright but Pete had a real bookish streak. The first time Pete threw a book into his lap, saying, "You're gonna like this," Ryan just rolled his eyes. The next day he was combing the shelves for more.  
   
Every week Pete was down at the post office, picking up packages of novels and newspapers from the east, or to post another handful of close-written, badly spelt letters. He was a prodigious correspondent, sending five or six times as many letters as he received.  
   
"Anything to send? Love letters for the folks back home?" Pete would ask, one foot already out the door. Ryan always shook his head. He thought of Spencer, sometimes even tried to write, but each time he put pen to paper he never got further than the date.  
   
Ryan's cash ran out quickly, but Pete was free enough with his ill-gotten wealth. He made a gift of a new pistol at Christmas, a guitar when he learnt that Ryan could play. Usually Ryan would make a stumbling attempt to thank him, would start, "I don't know what to say," or "You know, if I can ever repay you..."  Inevitably Pete'd cut him off with a braying laugh, or a derisive snort, or a rough kiss and a leering suggestion.  
   
Pete wasn't unkind, never inflicted the infamous Wentz temper on Ryan himself, though there was one time down in the saloon when a hand of cards led to an exchange of blows. It took both Andy and Ryan to pull Pete back, to tug the jagged-edged bottle from his hand and persuade him it wasn't worth it.  
   
When Pete finally calmed enough for them to let him go, he snatched up his hat from the table, glaring all the while at his erstwhile rival, before stalking out of the saloon. He didn't return to the house till dawn, when he woke Ryan from sleep by pinning his wrists to the bed, straddling his hips and leaning down close to whisper, "I'm going to fuck you now. Okay?"  
   
Afterwards Pete held him, pressed easy kisses to his spine, called him stupid names. He was sweet, or as sweet as he could be, anyway.  
   
The months passed very quickly. The days floated by, one by fleeting one, until winter turned to spring, and then one sunny day Patrick Stump came to town and the quiet times were over.  
 

*  
   
Patrick's name was long familiar from the packages and letters, and before that the newspaper write-ups of the Fall Out gang's second in command.  
   
He'd expected someone as rough around the edges as Pete, someone who talked too fast and gambled too much, as quick to shout as laugh. The reality was the picture of a dapper gentleman, adjusting his hat as he stepped out of the dusty stagecoach.  
   
Patrick approached with his hand held out to shake, but Pete just flung his arms around him and lifted him up in the air.  
   
"Missed you!" Pete said gleefully, setting Patrick down again with a thump.  
   
"Yeah." Patrick straightened his spectacles, mouth twitching. "Good to see you too."  
   
Like Pete, though, Patrick liked to talk. The first night around dinner he was already eagerly outlining the preparations they'd need to make for their next big hit, and what he'd lined up for afterwards.  
   
Joe and Andy came over to share in the reunion, and the meal stretched out for hours as they swapped jokes and old anecdotes. At the end of the table, Ryan kept mostly silent, head occasionally turning from side to side as Patrick made some reference to adventures long past and Pete rocked back in his seat with laughter.  
   
Over the next few days the big house filled up with more visitors: Nate the Kid, disowned rancher's son Alexander Suarez, smooth-talking Ryland Blackinton.  
   
On learning Ryan hailed from Summerlin, Ryland was quick with a string of questions. "So how's the old Cobra? Gabe and Victoria still raising hell together?" He shook his head, smiling. "Still can't believe it, that old snake finally taking an honest trade."  
   
Ryan scrambled to catch up. "I didn't realise - I mean, Gabe and Victoria? Really?"  
   
Gabe had swept into Summerlin a few years back, bought the town's only saloon off the previous owner outright and been there ever since. About a year later, Victoria joined him. Ryan had never thought to wonder where the money had come from.  
   
"Yeah." Ryland laughed at his surprise. "You may be good with a rifle, kid, but I'm telling you now, don't ever cross Victoria when she's got a gun."  
   
Nate was the last to arrive in Wilmette, his entry their signal to depart. Within days, Pete had shut up the house and given the keys back to the landlord, and then the Fall Outs were on the move.  
   
Ryan was the last to leave the house. He trailed around the rooms, furniture all covered up in sheets, and didn't bother pretending that the feeling in his gut wasn't some kind of dread.  
   
*  
   
The ambush was simple.  
   
Ryan's position was up on the bluff, hidden in the scrub above the low valley, with Alex roughly opposite was on the other side of the trail. As the first riders and then the coach itself came galloping around the curve in the road, a shot rang out, a body fell - but the bullet came from Alex's rifle, not Ryan's.  
   
As the horses began to balk, their riders looking upwards with pistols raised, Ryan thought of Pete saying, _Don't be fucking yellow, Ryan. This is what we do._ And more softly, his mouth close to Ryan's ear, _You'll see. It's only strange the first time._  
   
He swallowed down the knot in his throat, he tightened his finger on the trigger.  
   
The next shot was Ryan's. And the next after that.  
   
Then with whoops and cries the rest of the gang thundered into view, and soon the valley floor was the scene of a real skirmish. Setting aside his rifle, Ryan scrambled to his feet and careened down the gravelly slope and into the fray.  
   
A guard came at him with a snarl. The pistol was already in Ryan's hand. He fired, and watched the man drop.  
   
Around him the fight was already coming to an end, the remaining guards throwing their arms to the ground in surrender. Pete was picking his way through the bodies when he saw Ryan, standing still with pistol in his hand, and made his way over with a smile.  
   
"That was some sharp shooting," Pete said, pleased and proud. "Knew you had it in you."  
   
"Yeah," Ryan said quietly, and let Pete lead him over to the coach where Andy and Joe were already fixing dynamite to the safe. As Andy lit the fuse Ryan covered his ears for the explosion, and when it came felt the shudder going right down to his very bones and marrow.  
   
But Pete was right - the feeling faded.  
   
He slept that night through without dreaming, and the next one too.  
   
The gang fell into a pattern of raids and robberies, dispersals and rendesvouses. They hit banks, held up stagecoaches, stopped trains in their tracks. Spring passed into summer; they grew rich, or richer.  
   
Sometimes Pete would buy the newspapers and read out loud around the campfire the tallest tales, the most extravagant stories of the daring Fall Out gang.  
   
Most of the stories were about Pete, naturally, but he took a special glee in the ones that described Patrick as 'baby-faced', or went into fine detail about Joe's tragic past (Joe would look up and point to himself with a shocked face - "who, me?"), or breathlessly revealed Andy's secret identity as an escaped British convict.

"Where do they get this stuff, honestly?" Pete'd say, shaking his head in mock solemnity before consigning the papers to the fire. "It's like they're just making shit up!"  
   
It was Patrick who figured it out. Snagging the latest paper out of Pete's hand before it could go the way of the others, he read the by-line out loud.  
   
"From intrepid travelling correspondent Lewis Kingston the Third..." Patrick dropped the paper and looked at Pete with narrowed eyes. "No. Pete, no. Please tell me you didn't."  
   
Pete had contained himself as long as he could and now almost choked with laughter, holding his sides as though they'd split. "They - they - I mean, it was just a fucking joke the first time - but then they actually _printed_ the damn thing! And asked for _more_!"  
   
When no one else joined in, Pete pulled himself together and wiped at his streaming eyes. "Aw, come on," he said, a little sharper now. "This is gonna be our legacy. This is gonna be our _legend_. Who'd you prefer writing it? Me, or some reporter schmuck who's never said fucking boo?"  
   
Everyone either looked at the ground or towards Patrick, waiting to see what would happen next.  
   
After a moment Patrick sighed. "Fine," he said and snatched the paper from the ground, screwing it up in a ball before tossing it into the flames. "Just - no more of this 'baby-faced' shit, okay?"  
   
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Pete said, all smiles once he'd got his own way. "From now on you're the mastermind, okay? Patrick Stump, _notorious mastermind_. Better?"  
   
Most of the articles only talked about the Fall Out Four, meaning Pete, Patrick, Joe and Andy. Pete claimed it was all part of a campaign of misinformation, part of keeping the element of surprise on their side.  
   
As the newest member, Ryan never got a mention in the papers at all. He didn't mind. In the end it actually worked out for the best, just one less loose end to tie up when he finally decided to leave.  
   
*  
   
"We can winter in California, you think?" Pete said, tying his bandanna around his nose and mouth. "I hear it's real sunny there. You like the sun, don't you, Ryan?"   
   
"Yeah." Ryan checked his rifle one last time. "And I'll grow my hair and get a tan."   
   
Summer was winding down when Pete started talking about lying low again. They'd travelled all over, hitting five different states in less than three months. One more quick heist, they agreed, and then they'd take a break.  
   
"Okay, boys," Pete said more loudly, calling the Fall Outs to order. "You know the drill: Ross and Suarez take out the guards, the rest of you shake down the passengers. Rough and ready, you got it?"  
   
It was quick work shooting out the two guards driving the coach. Ryan barely registered the red that bloomed at the chest of one, from the temple of the other. Two more to add to the tally he'd lost track of long ago.  
   
The screams and shouts of the passengers as they were pulled out of the coach were just noise and distraction, something to be ignored as he and Alex waited for the others to finish up their work.  
   
"Ryan? Ryan Ross, is that you?"  
   
It was the sound of his name that broke though his concentration. Ryan turned to see one of the passengers, a young man being held back by Joe and Nate. He froze in his saddle, the rifle hanging slack from his hand.  
   
"Settle down," Joe warned, and cocked his pistol. "Settle down! You wanna get hurt, kid?"  
   
The passenger ignored him. "Jesus Christ, it is you." His eyes were wide, his face pale and urgent as he struggled to get closer. "Ryan, look at me, you've gotta help us, it's-"  
   
Ryan heard the shot from far away as though some distant thunder, watched Brent crumple to the ground like a paper doll.  And then Pete came riding up on his piebald horse, a smoking pistol in hand.  
   
"Anyone else want to make trouble?" Pete shouted into the sudden silence. "Yeah, didn't think so."  
   
Ryan thought he saw Brent's fingers twitch, then still. A wine-red stain spread out on the ground below the body. Pete muttered an order to Nate, who spared an uneasy glance at Ryan before dismounting to rifle through Brent's pockets.  
   
He had to look away. He steadied his gun with two shaking hands, swallowed down a mouth of bile, then brought the rifle stock back up to his shoulder.  
   
He held it together long enough for the rest of the passengers to hand over their valuables and the gang to get clear of the scene of the ambush, long enough to get all the way back to camp. Then he was stumbling away into the scrub to puke his fucking guts out.  
   
He made his mind up there and then, on his knees in the dirt, stomach heaving.  
   
Ryan waited a few days, let Pete keep talking about California and Mexico and all the other places they'd go. Then one night while everyone was sleeping, when he was supposed to be on watch and tending the fire, he left. Under cover of darkness and without a word of warning, it was a coward's departure - he thought it fitting.  
   
He took no coins, no cash, nothing from the summer's slaughter but some clothes and the guitar, his well-worn rifle, his regret. He tried not to think about what Pete would say when he woke up and found Ryan gone. Instead he thought ahead, to Summerlin and home.  
   
He told himself if he travelled fast enough, he might make it back in time for Spencer's birthday.  
   
*  
   
It was good to be back - at first, anyway.  
   
He filled his days with honest work and old friends. Most days Ryan could walk around the town he'd grown up in and pretend to himself he'd never left, that the last outlaw year had never been. Even his father seemed glad to have him back.  
   
And there was Spencer, of course, who'd always kept faith that he'd return, who didn't press him to confess what'd happened in that missing year except to point out he was an idiot for leaving in the first place.  
   
When his father fell sick, it was Spencer who came to his rescue. He packed his bags and moved up to the farm without asking, cutting off Ryan's protests with an exasperated, "What would you even do if I weren't around to save your ass?"  
   
"I don't know," Ryan muttered, looking down at the ground, remembering just what he'd done without Spencer, thinking he didn't deserve this generosity and knowing he'd take it anyway.  
   
Still, there were limits.  
   
It seemed wrong even thinking of them in the same sentence, but Ryan soon realised there was at least one respect in which Spencer reminded him of Pete. Like Pete all those months ago, Spencer's sideways glances and accidental-seeming touches told that if Ryan were to follow him up the stairs and into his bedroom one night, Spencer wouldn't object.  
   
Ryan could never quite make up his mind whether this was something new or if it was just the year gone by that'd opened his eyes to what should've been obvious. Either way, it didn't mean he'd take up the offer.  
   
Which wasn't to say he wasn't tempted - sometimes when Spencer was rumpled and grumpy in the mornings, when Spencer was quiet by the fire and smiling, he thought about how easy it would be to rest his hand on Spencer's shoulder and pull him in close, closer, until their mouths met.  
   
From time to time he imagined them living in this same house ten, or twenty, or thirty years from now, growing old together.  
   
Even on his best days, he couldn't bring himself to completely believe this was ever going to happen.  
   
Closer to the mark were the times when Ryan was alone in his bed, jerking off to the memory of a lean body marked by tattoos and darkly mocking eyes, and he'd think about what would happen if he went into the room next door and crawled into Spencer's warm bed, if Spencer would spread his legs and let Ryan fuck him in the dark, with his eyes closed.  
   
It kinda scared him - to think Spencer would say yes, that he was even thinking about it at all.  
   
So it went until the day Victoria leant in across the bar, saying, _Your old friend Pete is back in town, did you know?_  
   
A part of him was shocked and horrified and excited. A part of him had always known it was just a matter of time, waiting for this axe to fall.  
   
   
 

 **Three**  
   
So Brendon was the Cobra's new piano man.  
   
He was also their new washer of dishes, clearer of tables, messenger boy, occasional stablehand, and of course outlaw-in-waiting. Most days he got up at the crack of dawn, and didn't return to his pallet in the back room until long past midnight.  
   
Even without Gabe's threats, he was too _exhausted_ to think about skipping town.  
   
When he was trying to cheer himself up, he thought, hey, maybe it's not so bad. He wasn't riding the rails, hocking family heirlooms, or pickpocketing to survive. He had a place to sleep and three square meals, and he got to play music every single day.  
   
And then he'd remember Victoria pushing the gun into his belly and Gabe's mocking smile.  
   
At his sorriest moments he resented the saloon's carousing clientele. None of them, Brendon thought mournfully as he banged out another jaunty tune, could possibly have as many dark secrets as he did.  
   
The last customer of the night was typical: tapping his fingers, sipping his drink, leaning back to share a laugh with Gabe at the bar. He was just like the rest of them, carefree and utterly oblivious to Brendon and his plight.  
   
Or maybe not so oblivious, for as Brendon wrapped up the song with a flourish the guy made his way over with a swagger.  
   
"Nice tunes you had there." The guy stuck out a callused hand. Tattoos showed in the gap where his sleeve rode up from his wrist. "I'm Pete, by the way."  
   
"Brendon." They shook. Next to Pete, all sleek and confident, Brendon was suddenly very aware of his unruly hair, the threadbare state of his clothes.  
   
"Come on." Pete tilted his head towards the bar, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. "I'm getting you a drink."  
   
"You know, usually Gabe just lets me have them for free," Brendon said, following Pete to the counter. He glanced quickly sideways and away again, startled by Pete's feral grin. "So maybe I should be giving you a drink."  
   
"Fine with me," Pete said, shrugging easily. "Remind me to thank you." And he leaned back on the bar, shirt riding up to show the tilt of his hips, the hint of ink on his stomach.  
   
Whoever this Pete was, he didn't want for money. Later he led Brendon upstairs to the biggest room in the hotel, the master suite with the balcony looking out over the main street. Emptying his pockets, Pete tossed a handful of crumpled bills on the top of the dresser along with a gold-plated watch and a fancy silver-butt pistol. Brendon tried not to watch too obviously.  
   
As though hearing him think out loud, Pete grinned at Brendon in the mirror as he shrugged off his jacket and unbuttoned his vest. "Gabe already told me how you guys met. Let me guess, you're thinking about running off in the dead of night with my valuables?"  
   
"N-no," Brendon lied, red-faced. He sat down on the edge of the bed uncertainly, hands bunching up in the sheets. He'd seen the pair talking, but - "Gabe told you that? Sorry, but who are you, exactly?"  
   
"You honestly haven't figured it out yet? Shit, Brendon. And here I thought I was _famous_." Pete snapped his teeth shut on the word. "Come on, you're seriously telling me you've never heard of the Fall Outs?"  
   
"Oh," Brendon said after a moment. " _Oh_. Right."  
   
Pete laughed and turned towards the bed. He tipped Brendon's chin up with his fingers, brushed his thumb over Brendon's lower lip. The look in his eyes spread the heat from Brendon's cheeks down into his chest, his belly.  
   
"Were you really this smooth when you were trying to rob the place?" Pete said, and leant down to kiss him without waiting for a reply. "I can see why you got caught. At least you know how to shoot a gun, yeah?" he said when they broke apart.  
   
"Um. Yeah." Brendon shook his head and ran his hand through his hair.  
   
"That's good." Pete leant down again. "I'd hate to have to keep you around just for your pretty mouth," he said and kissed him harder this time, his tongue slick and darting in Brendon's mouth. He pushed his thigh between Brendon's knees and ground up against him until they were both halfway to hard.  
   
"Now. Take off your clothes." Pete leaned back against the dresser and watched, palming himself through his jeans. When Brendon was naked, all he said was, "Go on." Pete's smile like a slash as he nodded towards the bed. "Lie down."  
   
He lay back and watched and listened - the thud of one boot dropping and then the other, the flash of dark ink on tanned skin, the clink of Pete's belt buckle, the jut of his cock.  
   
The mattress dipped slightly as Pete climbed onto the bed. "Turn over," Pete said, rubbing oil into his hands, "on your side." Brendon was already impatient, already aching. But Pete was slow, dragging his hand along the curve of Brendon's spine, his cleft, just five fingers on his skin and not nearly enough.  
   
Then Pete's fingers were slick and pushing inside him. One and then another, and finally another. Brendon arched back slightly, pushing up against Pete's hand. He looked back over his shoulder. "Come _on_ ," he said, hearing the want in his own voice. "Please."  
   
"On your back," Pete said, hard in his own hand, "now."  
   
He lifted his legs, let Pete spread him wide. Pete's first stroke was deep, the second deeper still. Brendon let his head fall back as Pete picked up the pace, losing himself in the rhythm, the feel of Pete's fingers digging into his hips almost pleasurable, Pete's thrusts into him gaining pace.  
   
He wanted to touch himself, to relieve some of the ache, but Pete slapped his hand back to the mattress, said breathlessly, "No." He had to wait, hard and aching, until Pete was finished. Only then did Pete wrap his hand around his cock and he thrust into Pete's palm, breathing too fast, all too soon undone.  
   
They lay curved together for a moment, sticky and panting, before Pete peeled away and flopped onto the bed beside him. They caught their breaths, staring at the ceiling.  
   
"Well," Pete drawled eventually. "That was fun."  
   
Brendon turned on his side. "Yeah." Probably the most fun he'd had since arriving in Summerlin, anyway. Lazily he reached out, tracing the chain of thorns on Pete's chest with his fingers.  
   
"Alright, then." Pete grabbed Brendon's hand, stopped him before he got any further. He looked at Brendon, eyebrows raised slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"  
   
Okay, so. He hadn't been expecting to stay the night or anything, but the dismissal still stung. After a moment he nodded. He rolled out of bed, snatched up his trousers, began casting around for his shirt.  
   
Brendon looked back at Pete a couple of times as he got dressed, but it already seemed like he'd lost interest, not even bothering to look up when Brendon left the room.  
   
*  
   
504 Pinkerton Street, Chicago was a shopfront barely wider than the front door was tall. Only the discreet gold lettering on the window declared the location of the _National Detective Agency_.  
   
Most people never gave the agency a second glance, but even back when he was a kid working in his father's store, Jon would be walking up and down and around the block just trying to get a glimpse inside that narrow window.  
   
Sometimes he'd catch her after she'd locked up the office for the day. "Hey, Cassie," he would say, scratching at the back of his neck. "Are you - do you need someone to walk you home?"  
   
Cassie's ears would redden, and she'd clutch her case files closer to her chest, and hesitate. But she always said yes.  
   
They were walking out together by the time he joined the army, engaged soon after his discharge. Since then they'd both been trying to save up enough to finally get married - Cassie by managing the office at her father's agency, and Jon by chasing whatever bounty hunt her old man saw fit to send him on.  
   
For two months and counting, Jon'd been convinced he was wasting his time in Summerlin. It was only on the night he'd overheard Pete and Gabe behind the Cobra that he'd known for sure that something was up.  
   
Cassie's reply to his urgent telegram had come in five days ago:  
   
 _DEAREST JON . LOOK FOR TOM AND NICK THURSDAY TRAIN 0910 . STAY SAFE COME HOME SOON . XOXO YOUR CASSIE ._  
   
Jon shoved the telegram back into his pocket as the morning train pulled in with a great hissing of steam and clanking of pistons. It didn't take long to spot his old friends in the cowboy crowd that piled off the train, the only two in city-style suits.  
   
"The Fall Outs are starting to move in," Jon said, filling them in as they walked into town. "Wentz is lying low, but he's definitely here and I'm pretty sure I saw Stump too. The others'll be following soon, if they aren't here already."  
   
"Any word on what they're after?" It was Tom's first big case since coming back from a bad run-in with Beckett's gang and he kept looking over his shoulder, as though expecting an ambush at any moment.  
   
Jon nodded sharply. "A train's coming through next week with a bank shipment. Supposedly this one's completely off the books, so could be someone at the state office is taking-"  
   
"Wait, wait, wait the fuck up," Tom hissed, grabbing at Jon's sleeve. He pulled Jon and Nick to the side of the street, pulling his hat down over his eyes. "Who's that?"  
   
"Him?" Jon looked across the main street, where a familar skinny figure was stepping out of the general store. "Ryan Ross? He's just a local, a farmboy and - what the hell, Tom?"  
   
"Ryan Ross. Goddamn." Tom shook his head and whistled softly. "Yeah, I know him. I was there, undercover in Beckett's gang, the night he joined up with the Fall Outs."  
   
*  
   
Ryan came home to find Pete reading a book at the kitchen table, boots carelessly propped on a chair. The back door swung ajar, the lock picked open.  
   
Pete shut the book with a snap. "Hello, Ryan," he said, drawling the words out slow. "Did you miss me?" Deliberately he lifted one foot from the chair and placed it on the floor, the other following in its own good time.  
   
Ryan brushed off the seat with his sleeve and sat down, his hands folded tight together on the table in case his fingers shook. "Hello Pete," he said. "What do you want?"  
   
"Come on, Ryan. Don't play dumb. Why do you _think_ I'm here?" Pete leaned forward, dark eyes intent. "I've got a job coming up, okay, a really big one that could stand to see us all very rich.  
   
"And," he added, his mouth twisted in what was almost a smile, "it seems to me that we have some unfinished business, parting the way we did."  
   
Pete reached out across the table, his hand very warm on Ryan's skin. His voice was gentle, like he was talking to a startled horse.  
   
"Do you remember what I said when I met you? I said, there's a place with us if you want. There still is, Ryan, if you want it."  
   
And it was just like old times, Pete's voice saying one thing and his eyes another, thumb rubbing warm tight circles against Ryan's wrist. It'd be so easy, Ryan realised, just to say yes.   
   
Ryan pulled his wrist out of Pete's grip, scrubbed his palms along the creases of his jeans. "I'm not." He shook his head. "You know I won't."  
   
There was a flash of anger in Pete's eyes, just for a moment. Then Pete was cocking his head, wheedling and sweet. "Come on, Ryan. If you won't do it for me, do it for yourself. Just think what a little money could do for your farm. Think about all the nice things you could buy for your friend Spencer..."  
   
Ryan felt his hackles rise, a warning prickle down his spine. "You can leave him out of this. He's just." He shook his head, tried for a softer tone. "I told you, okay? I'm saying no."  
   
They stared at one another for a long moment.  
   
"Okay." Pete looked down and sighed. He pushed his chair back abruptly, the sound harsh against the worn floorboards. "If that's how you want to play it."  
   
Ryan started, "I'm not _playing_ -"  
   
Pete just raised his voice and talked right over the top of him. "So how about this? I'm gonna make a wager with you, Ryan." He tucked his book back into his pocket and gathered up his hat. "I'm betting by this time tomorrow, you're gonna be down at the Cobra, asking Victoria - no, you're gonna be _begging_ Victoria to let me know you've changed your mind."  
   
"Pete." Ryan felt a panicky fluttering in his chest. He pushed his own chair back with a clatter. "What the hell are you planning?"  
   
Pete looked back over his shoulder and smiled. "See you tomorrow." He slammed the door behind him.  
   
Within moments Ryan was out the same door and running for his horse. By then Pete was already gone from sight, gone around the corner of the mountain trail - but it wasn't Pete he was looking for.  
   
Ryan rode all around the farm, the orchards, the trail as far down to the main road. He rode until nightfall, and only then turned back with reluctance.  
   
He felt a kind of hope rise up as he returned to the house, thinking there might be a light on in the kitchen window and inside Spencer with his eyebrow raised, saying, _Where the hell's my dinner, Ross?_  
   
But the house was still empty, the lanterns unlit.  
   
He fell asleep in the front room, waiting, and woke near sunrise to the sound of a rock shattering the window, followed by the fading thunder of hoofbeats. Around the rock was a piece of paper, ripped out from the front of a book. On one side there was the book's title and the author's name. On the other, a few words scribbled in Pete's careless hand:  
   
 _Got yr boy. U know wat to do._  
   
*  
   
Two strangers were waiting for Spencer on the road back to the farm.  
   
One was tall and gangly, the other shorter and smiling. They called each other Ryland and Alex. They put a gun to his head and a bag over his head and took him somewhere in the town, some place quiet and underground and dark.  
   
Minutes or hours passed. Hands bound by hemp, he spent a while trying to work his way free and only rubbed his wrists raw for his trouble. Finally, there was the creaking of the trap door, the thud of boots on wooden steps and then more quietly on the dirt floor. Spencer shifted. "Who's there?"  
   
Whoever it was yanked the blindfold off none too gently. "Guess."  
   
Spencer squinted in the sudden light. As his vision cleared he made out a wide smile, dark eyes, a lick of jet-black hair. "Who the fuck are you?"  
   
"I'm Pete," he said, eyebrows raised. "What? Ryan must've mentioned me." Pete laughed. Spencer's poker face obviously wasn't as good as he'd thought. "Guess not. What, did you really think you were his first?"  
   
"You think I-?" Spencer ignored the stab of jealousy in his gut and snapped his mouth shut. He took a deep breath before he let himself open it again. "Fine, whatever. What do you want from me?"  
   
"Come on, Spencer. Like this was ever about you." Pete reached out to pinch Spencer's chin, turning his face this way then the other. "You know? You're younger than I thought you'd be."  
   
Spencer pulled away, banging his head back against the wall. The pain made him see a bit clearer. "Ryan," he said through gritted teeth. "What do you want from Ryan?"  
   
"Ah, well." Pete sounded almost merry. "That's easy, isn't it?" He stood, his shadow blocking the light. His hand closed briefly in Spencer's hair, clenched painfully for a moment and then let go.  
   
He took the lantern when he left the cellar, leaving Spencer in the dark again.  
   
*  
   
The next morning Victoria woke Brendon at dawn and told him it was almost time. She handed him a loaded pistol too, saying, "You're gonna need this where you're going."  
   
An hour Ryan swung into the saloon, spurs jangling and hands clenching, unclenching. He didn't spare Brendon more than a glance, heading straight for Victoria at the bar. "Where's Spencer?" he said bluntly.  
   
Seated at the piano, Brendon kept his head down and his eyes on the keys, and listened very hard.  
   
"Safe." Victoria was cool-eyed, drying glasses with a white cloth. "We'll let him go when Pete sends word that the job's done. You ready?"  
   
"Yeah."  
   
"Good. Brendon'll take you. They're waiting outside of town, over the mountains." She set a glass down on the counter and picked up another, her voice as soft as it'd ever been. "Sorry it had to turn out this way, Ryan."  
   
Brendon hadn't had much to do with Ryan in the few weeks since he'd arrived in town. He'd seen him around the Cobra, of course, but he hadn't exactly seemed one for small talk. So it surprised him when Ryan spoke up as they rode up into the mountains to the rendesvous.  
   
"I liked it," Ryan said abruptly. "When you started playing at the Cobra. I kinda wish you'd come to Summerlin sooner."

Brendon shot him a cautious glance but he seemed sincere. "Thanks."  
   
"I always meant to talk to you." Ryan looked away into the distance. "Sorry I never did."  
   
They were then well out of town, moving up into the foothills. They didn't follow the trails, instead moving off the beaten path and into the scrub on a secret route Pete had led him up and back again just a few days previously.  
   
"Victoria said you came in on the train with nothing," Ryan said, eyeing his frayed sleeves and patched-up jeans. "Let me guess. You were running away from something?"  
   
"Um. Yeah." He flushed a little. Was it that obvious? "Home. Family. Everything."  
   
"I tried it once too, you know," Ryan said quietly. "It didn't work out like I thought it would."  
   
"Yeah," Brendon said, his mouth curling up a little. What he'd said to Victoria those few weeks ago wasn't completely a lie. He still wanted New York, the stage, fame. Maybe afterwards, he thought, once this job was done...  
   
"You can't have been with them long, right?" Ryan said, interrupting his thoughts. "With the Fall Outs, I mean. What'd they promise you?" Ryan's voice was dry. "Let me guess. Money? Thrills?"  
   
He shook his head ruefully. "Just my life."  
   
"Just your life," he heard Ryan echo. Then louder, "You ever killed a man?"  
   
It was a still, blue day. The sound of Ryan cocking his rifle was unmistakable in the quiet.  
   
Brendon swallowed and reined in his horse. "Never."  
   
"Didn't think so." Ryan heeled his horse forward a few steps. "I have," he said simply, and the way he held the gun like it was a part of him, the matter-of-factness of his voice, made the statement easy to believe.  
   
"Okay," Brendon said slowly. "You want to find Spencer? I can take you there."  
   
To his surprise Ryan shook his head. "They'll let him go when the job's done. Pete's good for his word. Most of the time. No, I just wanna ask you something." He lowered the gun. "Tell me, honestly. You really want to go through with this?"  
   
Brendon blinked. "What?"  
   
"You can still turn back, you know." Ryan pointed back down the hill, back towards the town. "No one ever told me that. I figure no one ever told you either so I'm doing it now." He squinted at Brendon. "You can still go back. And if you do, I'm not gonna stop you."  
   
"But-"  
   
"We hardly know each other, I know," Ryan interrupted. "And maybe you really want this, maybe you're just gonna keep riding up this mountain. I just - I want you to think about it, okay? 'cause if you keep going, you're never gonna be able to stop." His smile was a little crooked. "Trust me on that, at least."  
   
Brendon opened his mouth, shut it again. He looked back down the mountain, the barely-there path that disappeared into the trees.  
   
"You say you never killed a man, yeah?" Ryan said quietly. "Maybe you never want to."  
   
When Brendon didn't reply, Ryan gathered his reins up in one hand, his gun loose in the other.  
   
"Okay. I'm leaving now." Ryan nudged his horse into a walk and didn't look back.  
   
Brendon's mare shifted restlessly, wanting to follow the other horse. He absently stroked her neck until she quieted, thinking hard.  
   
He still didn't have any money, but at least now he had a horse to ride, a pistol he could pawn. Enough for a start, anyway.  
   
If he could just get away - there would be other towns, other saloons, other guys with dark hair and darker eyes. Some of those saloons might need pianists. Some of those guys might even let him stay an hour, or a night.  
   
And then, who knew? Maybe even New York, one day.  
   
He clucked to his horse and started back down the hill. Going back to Summerlin didn't seem like a smart idea, so he didn't quite retread his steps. Instead Brendon took a steeper path, heading away from the town and towards the promise of the east.  
   
When he got to the base of the mountain he looked back upwards for a glimpse of the skinny figure with the rifle slung over his shoulder, but he didn't see anything but the mountain, the trees.  
   
He realised he'd never said thank you.  
   
*  
   
Spencer woke without warning to the crack of gunshots, the sound of tables overturning and glass shattering and people shouting. _Ryan_ , he thought, and felt his heart drop out.  
   
But when silence finally fell, the person who threw open the trapdoor and clattered down the steps wasn't Ryan, or Pete, or anyone else that he could've possibly expected.  
   
"What the fuck?" he said, staring in disbelief as Jon Walker knelt to cut his bonds. "Ow," he added, as the blood rushed back into his wrists and hands. "But you're a school teacher," he said accusingly.  
   
"Yeah, well." Jon shrugged and stuck out a hand, helped him to his feet. "Sometimes I'm not."  
   
"I heard shots," Spencer said, wincing as he levered himself to his feet. "Have you seen - was Ryan -?" He heard his voice rising hopefully and made himself shut up.  
   
"Spencer." Jon paused, his face gone grim. "Ryan's gone."  
   
He stared blankly. "Gone? What do you mean? Not -?"  _Not dead_ , he thought. _Please, god, not dead._  
   
"With the rest of the Fall Out gang," Jon said. "We've got Gabe and Victoria upstairs, but the rest escaped earlier this morning, up into the mountains. The sheriff's men are tracking them down right now."  
   
"You mean he." Spencer sat down again, stumbling heavily on the dirt floor. He clenched hs fists uselessly. "Ryan was."  
   
"One of my men recognised him. He's an outlaw," Jon said. "He's been a member of the gang since almost two years ago. He took part in half a dozen hold-ups, probably more." He touched Spencer's shoulder, squeezed gently. "I'm sorry, Spencer."  
   
And even then, when Spencer felt that the ground had caved in from under him, that he was drowning and would never breathe free or easy again, only one thing seemed truly important.  
   
"I hope he gets away," he said hoarsely, looking down at the palms of his own hands, the crescent marks left by his fingernails. "I hope he lives."  
   
*  
   
Ryan had the strangest feeling after leaving Brendon behind.  
   
He thought if only he could rise up into the sky and look back down the mountain, he would see a thousand paths criss-crossing, some curling in on themselves and others trailing into the dust, still others that wandered off the map.  
   
This one he'd chosen led straight to the summit.  
   
Pete was seated beneath a tree on the top of the mountain. "Knew I'd win this wager," he said as Ryan approached, eyes bright and certain. He stood and swung up onto his own horse. "Come on. The others are waiting."  
   
And what then would he see if he could look forward, down the path to the base of the hills, into the wild plains and beyond?  
   
The noose, the darkest part of him whispered, or the bullet, the only possible and fitting ends to this crooked course.  
   
Or maybe, another equally stubborn part of him suggested, the part that'd told Brendon to leave and thought Spencer deserved better - maybe there would be other chances, other choices, maybe a happy end even if he hadn't yet earned one. He could hope.  
   
Pete brought his horse around, reached out to touch Ryan on the hand. "You ready?"  
   
Ryan nodded and took a deep breath. "Let's go." He clucked his tongue and urged his horse down the path that curved down the mountain's side, and out of sight.


End file.
